


every man in here wishin’

by glittering_git



Series: HP Kinkuary 2021 [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Banter, Blow Jobs, Clubbing, Dom/sub Undertones, Glamour Charms (Harry Potter), M/M, Roleplay, Semi-Public Sex, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 02:21:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29360952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glittering_git/pseuds/glittering_git
Summary: “You come only when I give you permission.”Fuck. “Who said anything about coming?”
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Series: HP Kinkuary 2021 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2138112
Comments: 6
Kudos: 132
Collections: HP Kinkuary 2021





	every man in here wishin’

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Adybou](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adybou/gifts).



> This is a birthday gift for the wonderful [Uphorie](https://www.archiveofourown.org/users/Adybou)! It’s a bit late, but I like to think I’m extending the birthday celebrations. Uphorie, you are such an amazing and supportive friend—I am so lucky to have met you! I hope this fic has a few things you like, like fluff and smut (no angst) ♥
> 
> This was written for both the Day 16 (roleplay) and Day 17 (public sex) [HP Kinkuary](https://hpkinkuary.tumblr.com/post/641664277734916096/hp-kinkuary-2021-is-here) prompts. 
> 
> Thanks to [fwooshy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fwooshy/pseuds/fwooshy) for the quick and thorough beta. You always reign in my tendency to be too wordy, and for that, I’m always grateful. 
> 
> Title and a few lyrics quoted from R. Kelly’s “Ignition (Remix)”

The tequila burns down Harry’s throat. He slams the shot glass down and shoves a lime wedge into his mouth, relieved when the cool citrus hits his tongue. He winces. “Bloody hell. You’d think tequila shots would get easier with age, but somehow, it always feels like my first one.”

“I, for one, love them,” the man standing next to Harry comments. He’s tall and lean, legs wrapped in the most form-fitting pair of dragon-hide trousers Harry’s ever seen—and he’s spent a considerable amount of time around Charlie Weasley and his dragon tamer mates. “There’s nothing sexier than a tequila shot,” the man says. He emphasizes his point by lasciviously licking the lime wedge between his teeth, a familiar sparkle in his eyes that sends a jolt through Harry. “Maybe you just need another one—then you’ll be seeing things from my perspective, Mr—Pritchard, you said?”

“Yeah, but _you_ can call me honey,” Harry winks brazenly, delighting when the man’s cheeks turn red.

“I will be calling you by your given name, Mr Pritchard,” he responds haughtily. “As we’ve only just met, I hardly think any other name would be appropriate.”

“I must insist that you call me by my first name,” Harry says. “Jack, please.”

“Well, _Jack_ , you may call me Bromley.” Bromley is prim and proper, the perfect picture of decorum, but Harry can sense the tension roiling beneath the surface—his words are rushed and his voice a bit too high. He wants to push, see what lays underneath.

“Bromley,” Harry says, enjoying the way the name fits in his mouth. “It suits you.” It’s an absolutely ridiculous name for an absolutely ridiculous man. Bromley's blush deepens at the earnestness in Harry’s tone, and Harry wants to know how far his blush extends. “What do you say to a second shot?”

“I’d say yes—” Bromley says, Harry’s heart soaring, “but,” he continues, “I reckon you’ve got ulterior motives.”

Harry can’t deny that, so he doesn’t even try to. He motions to the bartender and points down at their empty shots. “Two more, please, and this fine gentleman will be paying.”

“Bold of you to presume,” Bromley says, but there’s a smirk on his face. “But, since I want to have a good night, I’ll acquiesce to your terms.”

“Acquiesce?” _Bloody hell_ , Harry thinks, _if he wanted a vocabulary lesson, he’d date Hermione_. “What exactly did you say your job was?”

“I didn’t,” Bromley responds. “If you want to know, you’ll have to earn the answer from me.”

Harry thrills at the prospect of a challenge. “How do you propose I earn it?”

The bartender sets their shots, limes, and a small salt shaker down in front of them. Bromley picks up the salt shaker and offers it to Harry, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. From experience, Harry knows he’s going to love the next words out of Bromley’s mouth. “You come only when I give you permission.”

 _Fuck_. “Who said anything about coming?” Harry asks, but it’s weak, and they both know it. Ever since Harry got to the club, he’s had his eyes on Bromley, and he knows the feeling’s mutual. Call it intuition, if you will.

“You won’t be until I say so, not if you want to know what my job is.”

Harry doesn’t really give one flying fuck what the bloody wanker’s job is, but this—this push and pull—is _everything_.

Bromley holds out his hand impatiently for Harry’s, and Harry gives it to him. Bromley brings it to his lips, his pink tongue licking a long strip.

“Salt,” he demands, setting Harry’s hand down. Harry sprinkles the salt shaker. Bromley offers his own hand for Harry to do the same. Harry—not one to be outdone—starts by pressing light, close-mouthed kisses up Bromley’s hand, before whorling his tongue down Bromley's wrist and sprinkling salt. They reach for their shot glasses and clink them together.

“Cheers,” Harry says, making sure to make direct eye contact. He doesn’t want seven years of bad sex, thank you very much. Bromley holds his wrist to Harry’s lips, and Harry licks the salt, immediately reaching for the shot glass and then the lime.

“Want to dance?” Bromley asks, swaying his hips from side-to-side. Harry is too mesmerised to respond. “I’ll take that as a yes.” He takes Harry’s hand without asking, and fuck if Harry doesn’t also find that hot. Most of the people they pass are so close together that it’s hard for Harry to distinguish individual bodies, everyone rutting against each other in one sweaty, gyrating mass. There’s nowhere else Harry would rather be.

The club’s wizarding, but the music they’re playing isn’t. After the war, and the broader efforts of the wizarding world to integrate Muggle culture, music was one of the first things to spread like wildfire. All the wizarding clubs wanted to be known for having the best music, so they’d all play the Muggle chart-toppers.

_I’m like so what I’m drunk_   
_It’s the freakin’ weekend baby_   
_I’m about to have me some fun_

Bromley reaches the centre of the dancefloor and turns to face Harry. He pulls their hips flush, and the added friction feels so good that Harry wants nothing more than to work a hand between them and touch his aching cock. He doesn’t, though.

The beat changes to something more sensual and Bromley spins around, grinding his arse directly on Harry’s cock. Even though he can’t see his face, Harry knows he’s smirking, the bastard. Harry grabs him by the hips and pulls him closer, creeping one hand towards the bulge he’d felt in Bromley’s trousers. If he has to suffer, he doesn’t want to do it alone. But he doesn’t get far before Bromley is swatting his hand away. Bromley turns his head and shouts, “You’ll touch me when I say you can.” Harry’s cock twitches at that, and of course Bromley can feel it. “But we’re dancing right now,” Bromley says.

The song changes once more and Bromley comes back up, turning and bringing their mouths together in a kiss that’s all teeth and fighting, and fuck, if Harry doesn’t like that, too. He’s beginning to think there’s not much he doesn’t like about _Bromley_. While he works his tongue into Harry’s mouth, he also reaches a hand down Harry’s Muggle jeans, and Harry pushes his hips back. “If you do that”—he pulls away, breathless—“I’m going to come right here, and you told me I couldn’t until you said so.”

“Well, let’s get out of here.” The Dragon is on the edge of Diagon Alley, almost in Knockturn Alley, so when they leave the club, it’s mostly dark. Harry can only see vague outlines of people, but it's clear from their noises what they’re up to. A guttural moan has him turning his head, but Bromley is already dragging him towards an unoccupied bit of wall.

He pushes Harry against the back of the building and drops to his knees, nimble fingers already undoing the Muggle button and zip. Harry doesn’t have time to protest before Bromley is swallowing him to the root, the feel familiar and electrifying at once. Harry squeezes his eyes shut and prays to any deity that will listen. _He won’t come until he’s given permission. He won’t._

Bromley works him roughly, taking him so deep it’s a wonder he’s not gagging. He pulls off, his lips puffy and reddened, and it’s a miracle Harry doesn’t come right then and there. Bromley smiles knowingly and sticks his tongue out insolently, dragging it along Harry’s cock. Harry puts one finger on Bromley’s lips, needing a moment to breathe, but Bromley takes his finger into his mouth and begins to suck in earnest. Harry whimpers, the sensation too-much and not enough simultaneously.

Bromley lets Harry’s finger go with a loud _plop_. He carelessly wipes his mouth on his hand. “My what fine eyes you have, _Jack_ ,” Bromley says, and Harry knows his Glamour must be slipping. He can never manage to keep it up properly, not when all the blood in his body is enthusiastically rushing south. It’s a dangerous game, he knows, but he’s always lived his life on the edge. Even more so when he started dating Draco Malfoy.

Harry brushes a strand of pale white hair off of _Bromley’s_ forehead. “And what nice hair you have. It’s so pale; do you dye it?” Once both their Glamours start slipping, it becomes very hard for Harry to remember to call Draco by whichever ridiculous name he’s chosen.

“Fuck off. You love my hair.” There’s no heat in his words.

“I do,” Harry concedes. “But do you know what I love even more?”

“Is it my nose?” Draco asks, pinching the nose on his borrowed face. “Or wait, what about my cheeks?” He leans forward and brushes Harry’s cock with his cheek. “Or maybe it’s my teeth.” He moves back and gently holds the tip of Harry’s cock between his teeth.

Harry holds himself very still but can’t help the smile that splits his face. Draco’s not often playful or teasing, but something about these nights brings it out in him. “My what big teeth you have,” Harry says, and Draco lets Harry’s cock go.

“I think you mean this,” Draco says, standing up gracefully and pulling Harry away from the wall, taking his place, facing away from Harry. He pushes his skintight dragonhide trousers down to his thighs and Harry is delighted to realize that Draco’s not wearing any pants at all.

“I do love all your dragonhide.”

“I know you do, but right now, I’m here for you to wax poetic about my arse.” Draco emphasizes his point by grabbing both of his cheeks and spreading.

“If I were a poetry bloke, I could write sonnets about it, is that what you want to hear?” Harry asks, reaching out to touch those perfect globes.

“Yes, I want you to fuck me and tell me I’m pretty.” A whimper escapes Harry at that. “But don’t you forget," Draco continues, "you can’t come unless I tell you.” It's about the only thing Harry hasn't forgotten. He lines up and pushes in on one smooth stroke. Draco’s been prepared since they’d arrived at the club earlier that night. He said he liked how it felt, trawling the clubs for a “hookup”, knowing he was ready to be fucked at the drop of a trou. Harry liked it, too.

“I love your arse,” Harry grunts, pulling out and then sliding back in slowly, “but I love _you_ even more.” He knows they’re supposed to be pretending to be strangers, but it’s hard to remember when he’s buried in Draco’s arse. His Glamour’s probably gone by this point, but he doesn't care, not really.

“Quite a bold thing to say to a one night stand, mon chéri,” Draco says, entirely too coherent for Harry’s liking. The alleyway is dim, grimy, and they’re surrounded by a cacophony of pleasure—Harry wants Draco’s own moans to join the chorus. On his next thrust, he reaches around and takes hold of Draco’s leaking cock. He strokes it, alternating between slow and quick, and begins thrusting in time with his strokes. Draco calls out in pleasure. Harry speeds up his movements, and Draco starts moving his hips back to meet his.

“Are you going to let me come?” Harry gasps, on the verge, knowing Draco is, too. He swipes his thumb over the tip, running his nails along Draco’s long prick, exactly how he likes it, and he’s coming on the wall in hot bursts. When he’s done, Harry brings his hand up to his mouth, liking the taste of Draco, liking the fact that he’s the one who made Draco come undone like this. Not Jack, but Harry.

“Fuck, yes, come for me, Harry,” Draco commands, their game forgotten in the throes of his passion. Harry, not one to disappoint, does. He collapses against Draco’s back, the tension of the past few hours leaking out of him. He feels euphoric and exhausted.

“Every fucking time,” Harry breathes into Draco’s shoulder. “You’re perfect.” Draco pushes him off and Harry shuffles to the wall, sliding down on his arse. The pavement is cool against his bare arse. Draco manages to pull his trousers up and then joins Harry on the ground.

“Since you were such a good boy, I’ll tell you what I do,” Draco smiles. Harry has to admit he’s curious. He never quite knows what will come out of Draco’s mouth at times like this. He always comes up with the most ridiculous names and careers, and Harry loves him even more for it.

“I’m a professional clown, but if you tell a soul, I’ll have to kill you,” Draco says.

Harry’s silent for a moment, trying to picture Draco—his posh, perfect Draco—dressed as a circus clown. He can’t do it. It’s an absolutely ridiculous image. He bursts out laughing. And once he’s started, he can’t stop. “You,” he wheezes, “a clown.” Tears leak out of the corner of his eyes, and Harry has to shut them and focus on his breathing. But every time he manages to almost get it under control, he thinks of Draco with a red nose, or those big shoes, and loses it again.

“If you tell anyone, Mr Pritchard, I’ll have to kill you,” Draco insists.

But Harry knows Draco doesn’t mean it, not at all. Draco’s looking at him with so much love in his eyes that Harry doesn’t know what he did to deserve it. That thought manages to sober him up.

Harry leans over and puts his lips to Draco’s ear. “I’ll take your secrets to my grave, Draco Malfoy.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed ♥
> 
> I love making new friends on [Tumblr](http://glittering-git.tumblr.com/) and [Dreamwidth](https://glittering-git.dreamwidth.org/)!


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